


Cursed or Not

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Cursed or Not [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Cas reads trashy paperbacks, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I totally stole the pattern of the first few lines from Buffy, Impala Sex, M/M, episode s07e23: Survival of the Fittest, learning sex from books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You do, you know," says Cas.</p><p>Dean's inspirational speech cuts off mid-sentence. "Wait, what?"</p><p>"Have me, Dean," he says, and then his hands are on Dean's face and he's pressing their mouths together; Dean's too surprised not to respond, and he's clutched Cas's waist beneath his trenchcoat and pulled him closer before he knows he's doing it. Cas sighs, his exhale hot on Dean's cheek. "Have me," he whispers, lips brushing Dean's as he speaks, feather-light but searing. "Please. Forgive me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cursed or Not

"You do, you know," says Cas.

Dean's inspirational speech cuts off mid-sentence. "Wait, what?"

"Have me, Dean," he says, and then his hands are on Dean's face and he's pressing their mouths together; Dean's too surprised not to respond, and he's clutched Cas's waist beneath his trenchcoat and pulled him closer before he knows he's doing it. Cas sighs, his exhale hot on Dean's cheek. "Have me," he whispers, lips brushing Dean's as he speaks, feather-light but searing. "Please. Forgive me."

Dean knows they're probably going to die tomorrow. He remembers other doomed nights, other failures: seducing Jo, getting Cas laid. Well, he's never had any self-respect, and this is one promise at least he can keep. His hands tighten on Cas's hips as he says into his mouth, "I always do."

"Thank you, Dean," murmurs Cas, running his thumbs over Dean's cheekbones, his jaw, the curve of his neck, his collarbone beneath his clothes. Dean slides his palms up to Cas's chest under the scrubs, resting them over his heart, and teases his mouth wide, giving himself over to the kiss.

It should feel like falling, but it's more like flying.

Cas's hands are suddenly swift, shoving Dean's jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the collar of his flannel until the seam rips. For one dizzying second, Dean's in the air; then he's flat on his back on the Impala's tarp-covered hood with the angel grinding against him, a welcome weight bearing down between his thighs.

“Oh God,” he moans, “you taste like honey,” but the thought makes him remember the bees, and he stiffens, pushes at Cas’s shoulders. He can’t actually budge him, of course, but Cas gets the message and pulls back, looking down at him with confusion.

“We—I shouldn’t do this,” says Dean. “You’re not in your right mind, Cas, I’d be taking advantage.”

Cas sighs, dropping a kiss on Dean’s forehead. “Dean, I appreciate your concern, but believe me when I say I have loved you for years. It is the sanest thing about me.”

Dean doesn’t hear the word _love_ a lot (except in regards to pastry), and he honestly can’t remember the last time it was applied to him. But if it’s true (and he knows it’s true, he’s known for ages, he wishes he could tell him he feels the same way), that’s all the more reason to make absolutely certain Cas is on board with whatever they’re going to do next. “Are you sure?” asks Dean, persistent. “You want to—to—what do you want?”

"I want to bring you to orgasm," says Cas with a roll of his hips.

Which is the sexiest unsexy thing anybody's ever said to Dean, and his willpower dissolves. "Oh God, Cas, yes," he moans, rutting up against the press of his cock through the scrubs. "Can we get in the car?"

They make short work of the tarp and tumble into the backseat. Cas crawls back on top of Dean, kissing him with sloppy abandon while he shoves Dean's remaining shirts up into his armpits and up over his head, ducking his head to chase Dean’s mouth past the fabric. Dean whimpers as he wrestles Cas’s trenchcoat off, then starts working at the stubborn knot of his pants' drawstring. "Do you, uhm, do you know how to do this, Cas? I mean, you don't have a lot of practical experience."

Eyes narrowing, Cas says petulantly, "I may not have a sexual history to equal your own, Dean, but I have done extensive research on the subject."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Extensive, huh? I like the sound of that. What kind of 'research' have you done, angel?" He triumphs over the knot at last but curbs his impulse to just go for Cas's cock right away, flattering himself that that'll keep him from elaborating, and he wants to hear this. Just remembering the intent look in those blue eyes when Cas came across that stupid babysitter porno that one time—he'd jacked off to memories of that look for _weeks._

"I've read books," says Cas, and oh, that's not nearly as lurid as Dean was hoping for.

"Books? Dammit, you're even a nerd in the sack."

"I don't know what sack you're referring to, Dean," Cas says (one hand skating worshipful over the skin of Dean’s stomach, trailing shivers in its wake), "but I think you underestimate books. Words can be very stimulating, even fiction. There was one novel in particular that Meg brought me in the hospital because it had a tie on the cover—the sex was quite inventive. I didn't know some humans found pain to be pleasurable. Do you, Dean?" He bent and bit down where Dean's neck met his shoulder; Dean yelps, but the upwards twist of his hips is a clear affirmative. "You do. That's interesting. This book was otherwise not particularly plausible. And the title was ridiculously inaccurate—I've counted 14,658 shades of grey in clouds alone, and—"

"Wait, what?" Dean asks, making the connection between Cas's words and the magazine cover stories he'd been smirking at lately. "Meg brought you _soccer mom porn_ in the hospital? Cas, for God's sake, don't take those books as a guide to fucking me, please. I'm not a bored housewife."

Cas stills suddenly. “Do you want me to do that? To, to—" he licks his lips, takes a deep breath. It’s an utterly human gesture. “Do you want me to fuck you, Dean?” 

“Oh,” says Dean after a moment in a small surprised voice, “oh, I was using that more kinda, not literally, more the whole thing, like just the, uh, the general fooling around and, uh, coming. And stuff.” _Dammit, smooth, Winchester,_ he thinks furiously, but his mind won’t let go of the words, or the idea behind it. _Does_ he want Cas to fuck him? He’s never _really_ done it with another dude, not all the way (Christ, he’s thirty-three years old, he really needs to eliminate “all the way” from his vocabulary), but Cas. Cas inside him, opening him up, pounding into him…

“Oh God,” Dean says. “Oh God, _fuck,_ Cas, we can’t, not right now. We’re in my car, and there’s no lube, and we don’t have time, I don’t think. I think it takes a long time to, you know, get ready for that. But I do want that, Cas. If we live? If we get through tomorrow, yeah. Yeah, I want you to fuck me.”

"My mouth, then?" Cas asks, his voice lower and raspier than is strictly necessary. "I read several primers on oral sex, I'm sure I could please you." He props himself up on one elbow to run his tongue the length of Dean's collarbone, and hell, Dean's halfway there already, as if his libido is reacting to being in a backseat by ratcheting up to teenage levels. 

Or, you know, he could be reacting to the fact that there's six feet of half-mad virgin angel on top of him, calmly offering the possibility of a book-learned blowjob when five minutes ago he only had killing Dick to look forward to.

But he's gotten blowjobs in this backseat before, even given a few, and it's pretty awkward and not that comfortable for everyone involved. "Just stay here, OK, Cas?" He pulls him up to face him. "Hands'll do fine. Just stay up here and kiss me."

He demonstrates, fingers tangling in Cas’s hair as he pulls him closer, nudging his mouth open with his own. Cas whimpers while his tongue strokes and teases; his nails are digging into Dean's side, and he knows he'll have marks to savor if he survives the day.

"Lift up a little," he murmurs, and when Cas obeys, he slides one hand beneath his waistband to cup his cock. Gasping at the contact, Cas thrusts against him, but Dean keeps his touch light, just grazing the pad of his thumb up the underside, circling the head before moving back down with a loose grip.

Cas is panting into Dean's neck as the latter starts up a gentle rhythm, the one he uses on himself when he wants it to last (not that he gets a lot of opportunity to do so, since there's always someone in the next room or the next bed). He fumbles with his own fly for a little bit and gives up. "Hey, buddy, little help here? Can't get my pants off one-handed."

"What?" Cas looks up at him, confused, until the words make their way through the pleasure. "Oh yes, sorry," and Dean jumps, startled, because he's suddenly stark naked, and so's Cas, and _that's_ a nifty trick.

He’s about to say so when Cas closes the gap between their bodies, and then all he’s aware of is heat and skin, Cas’s skin everywhere, Cas’s unnatural heat burning through him, their legs a jumble, their chests pressed so near he can feel Cas’s heartbeat. Dean manages to extricate the hand trapped between them to clutch Cas’s hip, rutting up against him, with only sweat to ease the way—and it’s so sweet, and dirty and desperate, and how did he ever think this wasn't sex? They should have been doing this for _years,_ but they only have minutes, and it’s so far from being enough Dean would cry if he could. If those feelings weren’t driven down so deep, so deep he can only find them at the bottom of a bottle or on the edge of sleep.

Cas kisses him when he comes, one last rough thrust as he pulses sticky onto Dean’s stomach. And Dean’s right there with him, his orgasm fierce and sharp, like the Roman candles starring the sky of his Heaven, like the flash of power when he drives Ruby’s knife through a demon’s heart.

“Cas,” he says, holding the angel’s face in his hands, “dammit, don’t die on me tomorrow, OK? Don’t die, don’t leave me, I can’t…I can’t lose you again. It almost killed me, Cas, I wanted it to kill me.”

“I love you too, Dean,” Cas answers his unspoken words. “But it’s time to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I _miiiiight_ follow this up with Purgatory sex, if anyone's interested?


End file.
